Wind in her hair
by Alraune
Summary: FEMSLASH! You can't draw her, I've tried, but her beautiful body can't be squeezed into black lines and coloured plains.


**Title: **Wind in her hair

**Author: **Alraune

**Disclaimer: **No, I'm JKR, nothing belongs to me. -sighs-

**Beta: **Heikchen1987

**Warning: **FEMSLASH! Don't like, don't read!

**Summary: **You can't draw her, I've tried, but her beautiful body can't be squeezed into black lines and coloured plains.

A/N: As you might have realized, English is neither my mother tongue, nor my Beta's. So please don't kill us if there are too many mistakes. :)

Wind in her hair

What does she see in me? I always wonder, when the others look at me, and smile scornful, when I take her hand and press it and she smiles at me. Probably they think I had given her a love potion.

Or else she wouldn't have a reason to take my hand and press it and smile at me. I'm just an ugly girl, big and stocky, with hair as yellow as the buttercups in the summer and brown eyes, a brown as a marten's coat. Not like her eyes, not like Ginny's eyes. Her eyes are like chocolate, still liquid and sweet, so sweet and soft, so dark and tender.

Slowly I'm walking to the lake- there where we're meeting. Already from far away I can see her, standing between the others, all straight and motionless. The dark water flows over her pale and tender feet, she has put her cloak off. The others are running around, laughing, talking, being together and happy. Only Ginny is alone, departing herself from the others, just by her posture. They think she was cold and inapproachable, but when Ginny is with me, then her mask made of ice is melting and she smiles honestly and lovely.

Very slowly she lifts her right foot and makes a step. Circles float from her foot over the water, till they break on the moving bodies of the others. The wind plays with her hair, lets them waft and draw little pictures in the air. Her hair is red, but not as bright as her brothers', but coppery and heavy, when you take it in the hands. It feels like water which is woven in silk, so smooth and soft.

She is perfect, everything at her is perfect, from her heart-shaped face with the big, brown eyes, over the rosy lips, over her fragile, petite body to her small, little feet. She is always perfect, no matter what she's doing, whether she is flying and closing the eyes, to feel the wind, or whether she is speaking, with bright eyes and her lips are moving and her voice is floating through the room. She has a beautiful voice, quiet and still understandable, tender and still decisive, sweet and so fresh and still a little hoarse, as if a little from the evil of this world had stayed on her perfect, white skin and had given her something wicked, something which strengthens her inscrubality, this inscrubality which attends every of her movements, every of her looks.

You can't draw her, I've tried, but her beautiful body can't be squeezed into black lines and coloured plains. I broke the brush and she looked at me questioningly, turning around on the sofa, on which she was lying. I just looked at her, couldn't say anything, then she put a finger on my lips and smiled. And I knew that it doesn't matter to her, whether I can draw her, that nothing matters to her, as long as I'm with her. And she kissed me, my first kiss, but I don't know if it was her first kiss.

The thought of somebody touching her perfect, soft lips drives me mad with envy and fury. I would ask her, but she wouldn't answer me, as she never answers me, but only smiles. She listens to me and smiles, sometimes she even closes her eyes, as if she was tired. She is always tired, although she doesn't say, like she never says something about herself. She always just talks about me, never about herself, as if she was afraid to get aware of the love to me. Love which just fell onto us and has clouded our sight.

I still remember clearly, how I felt this love the first time, when I really looked at her the first time, when she felt my look and smiled at me. We have met often since then, but never talked much, and if somebody talked, it had been me who had tried to banish the silence between us, to face the love to her, even if I said something completely different. And she smiled at me and I fell silent, because I understood that she understands me, without these stupid tries to say everything, without this force to express everything in words, to enchain things and to demote them, to make them definitive.

You can understand some things without saying them, sometimes looks are enough, or kisses or also touches. We often touch each other, as if we needed foothold in this world, where nothing is certain and everybody tumbles of tentativeness, tumbles on the ways of fortune. We take each other's hand and press them, as if we couldn't have enough of them. Her hands are small and white and soft unlike my brown and big hands, which are as raw as the bark on the trees.

The smile gives us safety and love, so overarching that you feel snug. When we kiss, I do not feel surges or so, no I just feel endless satisfaction, when our lips are touching and our tongues are dancing to the music of love.

Now I'm almost behind her, she hasn't noticed me yet, she seems as if she was in a distant world only known by her.

"Ginny", I say and I put my hands on her small shoulders. She winces like a deer and turns around quickly. When she recognises me, a smile spreads over her pretty face, tentative like a butterfly in the early morning, when everything still lies in the dew and the world is still asleep, when the butterfly glides up hesitantly, and when the sun strokes his tender wings, suddenly self-confidently looking for nectar.

Her eyes light up, when she says: "Hello, Millicent."

A/N: Please let me know what you think, I can't read your thoughts, seeing I'm neither Snape nor Dumbledore or anybody else who can do so. ;) PLEASE REVIEW! Every reviewer gets some chocolate. grins


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